


Comfort in the Little Things

by treksickfic (cheeriofrog)



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Flu, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic, it's not Covid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:41:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27393670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheeriofrog/pseuds/treksickfic
Summary: Self-avowed “bulletproof” McCoy is miserable with a case of Kamaraazite Flu. Spock steps in to help because it's hard to meditate when you can hear someone coughing in the next room. A short and sweet sickfic for these unprecedented times.My immense gratitude to Tumblr user @soupandtissues for the beautiful stories that have comforted me and inspired me to write my own.
Relationships: Leonard "Bones" McCoy & Spock
Comments: 4
Kudos: 56





	Comfort in the Little Things

The door chime startled Leonard McCoy from a restless half-slumber. He considered standing and crossing to the door but who was he kidding? He lacked the strength to even roll himself over in bed. 

“Come,” he croaked, as loudly as he could, and the single word triggered another coughing fit. He propped himself up on one elbow.

_ The better to not choke to death _ , he thought, hand pressed to his chest. As the paroxysm gradually passed, he sagged back to the bed, sweating and shivering but too exhausted to do anything to ease his discomfort. 

He closed his eyes when he heard measured footsteps approaching the spot where he lay in misery. 

_ Chapel again, or M’Benga _ . 

Well, he didn’t feel like talking or listening to their pointless questions and he certainly didn’t need anyone hovering over him. Maybe if he pretended to be asleep, whoever it was would leave.

“So it appears you are not bulletproof after all, Doctor.”

McCoy’s eyes flew open at the deep, measured voice.

“Spock,” he said, resignation in his tone. He’d changed his mind. He’d prefer his over-solicitous nurse or brisk Dr. M’Benga to this. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“When Captain Kirk expressed his concern that you may be affected by the recent outbreak of Kamaraazite flu you said, and I quote, ‘I’ve been in Starfleet Medical for thirteen years, I’m bulletproof by now.’ Clearly you are not.” 

McCoy tugged at his blanket to cover himself, feeling exposed under the unrelenting gaze of Spock. 

“Kamaraazite flu is a nasty business,” he said. “Thought I was going to sneeze out a vital organ at one point.”

“Patients have been known to do just that. But in your case it was not the virulency of the flu itself, it was overwork and neglecting to administer the serum to yourself in order to ensure an adequate supply for the crew.”

“Hubris, in other words.”

“Not hubris, Doctor. You simply made the mistake common to senior officers, assuming you are indestructible.”

He started to respond and then felt a deep, burning ache in his sinuses. He drew in a quick breath and then folded forward with a powerful sneeze.  _ That might have been my spleen _ , he thought. When he dared to look up, Spock was standing near the bed, holding out a box of tissues with one hand. McCoy snatched them from him.

“Thanks,” he said, taking a handful and blowing his nose. “For the tissues and for the pep talk. Now what do you want? Did you come here to laugh in my face? Mabe mock my puny human immune system?”

“Not at all, Doctor. I find nothing about your illness amusing. I simply wondered if you were in need of any assistance. Your cough has been quite persistent this evening.”

“And how would you know?”

“Our quarters share a common wall. I have been aware of your distress for some time now.”

“Have you now? Took you long enough to check on me.”

“I assumed you wished to be alone.”

McCoy snorted, which triggered a cough. “Typical heartless Vulcan logic,” he said when he was able.

“Not logic, Doctor,” Spock replied. “A simple inference. You shouted at the last person who attempted to check on you, indicating a strong desire to be left alone.”

“Well, I don’t need your help. And I do want to be alone, so you can leave now.” 

“Are you certain? The quality and intensity of your cough is showing evidence of increasing chest congestion and inflammation, but yet you seem unable to clear your airway.”

McCoy tried to respond but curled in on himself as another fit overtook him. He coughed harshly into a handful of tissues aware of the deep ache in his lungs, the constriction and the rattle when he tried to take a deep breath. 

_ Damn it if he isn’t right. _

“Is there any effective medical treatment or does the illness have to run its course?”

He gestured vaguely toward a table in the front room. 

“There,” he managed to wheeze out after a few moments, gesturing toward a table in the front room. “Two hyposprays.” 

For some reason, he’d left the sprays out of reach. By the time he’d staggered in from Sickbay, his fever had been spiking and he wasn’t thinking straight, just dropped his whole kit on the nearest surface. By the time the fever broke, he’d been too exhausted to fetch any of it. 

He flopped backward against a stack of pillows that hadn’t been there a few minutes ago. He felt drained of all energy and was only vaguely aware of Spock’s movements around his quarters. If he could just get some sleep, that’s all he needed to throw this off. 

“Is there a preferred location for administration, Doctor?” McCoy opened his eyes to see Spock standing nearby, disengaging the hypospray lock with his thumb.

McCoy tilted his head to one side. “Right there,” he said, indicating the exposed arc of his neck. “About the same place you’d give me a nerve pinch.” 

_ Not a bad idea at that, instant unconsciousness _ , he thought, but the corophizine would provide the same effect in about twenty minutes or so without the residual headache. He sighed, echoing the hiss of the hypospray delivering the medication. 

Spock’s face showed just a hint of distaste, likely a conditioned response from the many times he’d been sick after receiving medication. He administered the second spray and then strode decisively from the room, depositing the hyposprays back into their cases. McCoy turned his head to watch as he busied himself in the small kitchen area. Spock returned to the sleeping quarters carrying a heavy glass mug, steam swirling from the top.

“What’s this?” McCoy said, accepting the drink from him.. 

“It is tea, with lemon and honey. I understand many humans enjoy it when they are experiencing symptoms of an upper respiratory illness.”

McCoy took a cautious sniff, not that he could actually smell anything, and looked up at Spock. 

“Not the Vulcan swill you drink, is it? That stuff could strip paint off a wall.”

“Vulcan spice tea is appropriate for more refined palates. This is plain black Oolong with Andorian honey and lemon. You should find it unassuming enough for your tastes.”

“I’m not sure if I should be insulted or not.” He closed his eyes at the first careful swallow. “It’s good,” he said. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”

Spock perched at the edge of the bed. “Whatever you may think of me, Doctor, I do not wish to see you suffer unnecessarily if I can assist you. If that means making you a cup of tea when you are ill, I am willing to do so.”

When he opened his mouth to reply, McCoy began to cough again, a combination of the medication and the tea having the desired effect. He felt the cup lifted from his hand and heard the clink on the bedside table as it was set aside. His cough was productive now, and he felt a gentle hand settle on his back and rest there, unmoving. No unnecessary movement or sentimental patting, just a welcome gesture of support and comfort. 

He could barely catch a breath in between violent coughs and when he did, he felt the deep rattle of congestion shifting in his chest. It must be disgusting to listen to. He scrabbled for the box of tissues Spock had given him earlier and felt it placed in his hands. He kept his head turned away as he struggled, trying to make a neat pile as he went through nearly the entire box of tissues. The fit seemed unending but finally he was able to take a deep breath without triggering another cough and he sank back to the pillows, covered in sweat, head pounding, chest aching, but feeling some relief. 

Spock disposed of the tissues and returned with a wet cloth in hand, a look of utter concentration on his face as he carefully bathed McCoy’s forehead and temples. 

“I can do that,” he said, reaching for the cloth but without much conviction in his voice. It was humiliating to be tended to by Spock but he felt too weak to do anything about it. 

“Lie still, Doctor.” Spock said, running the damp washcloth along the sides of his neck. 

“Y’know, if you’re going to play nursemaid, you can use my first name.”

He made no response, folding the cloth and setting it near the mug when he’d finished. 

“You’d have made a good physician, Spock.”

He raised one eyebrow. “How so?”

“You’re calm, you don’t panic. You do what needs to be done with no fuss. Guess that’s what comes from having no emotions. Wish I could manage it.” 

“Vulcans do experience emotions. So powerful that if we were to allow our emotions to dominate, it would mean a return to the savagery of our old ways. We are taught control from a young age.” 

Spock had alluded to the old ways before but McCoy had difficulty imagining him as anything but cool and unflappable. But maybe, just maybe, in those mysterious eyes, there was a hint of what was possible. 

“Nurse Chapel will be delighted to know you have emotions. Or maybe disappointed.”

“Christine already understands this aspect of my nature. She is one of the few who does.”

The medication was having its desired effect. The urge to cough was lessening, his breathing felt easier and a lazy, floating drowsiness was starting to take over. McCoy waggled his eyebrows lazily at the sound of his head nurse’s first name.

“‘Christine’ huh?’ Why, Spock, I had no idea.”

“It is not what you are assuming, Doctor. Nurse Chapel is sensitive, insightful and makes no assumptions about other species. You are fortunate to have her on your staff.” 

“What’re you still doing here?” McCoy’s voice was beginning to slur as he changed the subject. He didn’t have the energy for their usual banter.

“I am, as you say, ‘keeping you company,’” Spock replied.   


“You don’t need to do that.”

“On the contrary, Doctor. The sooner you fall asleep, the sooner I can return to my preferred evening activities.”

“Nearly there,” McCoy murmured.

“Then I will leave you to your rest.” Spock stood. “Shall I check on you later?

McCoy waved a dismissive hand. “Nah, I’m feeling pretty good.” 

And then he closed his eyes, vaguely aware of a sleepy half-smile on his face. Through his medicated haze he felt a hand settle against the top of his head.

“Then sleep well, Leonard.” Spock said. “We need you back in sickbay.”

McCoy responded with a click of his tongue and a fingergun gesture without lifting his hand from where it rested on his chest. “Will do.”

The last thing he heard was a sigh, the sound of the door to his quarters sliding shut and then all was dark and peaceful.


End file.
